Jackson Jones and the Puddle of Thorns (5 page)

The next day I shoved $2.57 into an envelope and stuck it under Reuben’s door. No name, no note, nothing. A hostile business takeover.

On Monday I found a note taped to my door:
What about interest
? So I calculated ten percent of $2.57 for six weeks. That came to thirty-eight cents. I stuck thirty-eight cents under Reuben’s door.

On Tuesday I got a picture of a perfect Captain Nemo. Inside the cartoon bubble were these words: “Written and Illustrated by
Reuben Casey.”
Written
was underlined twice.

I wanted to rip the picture, right through Nemo’s finicky helmet and finicky space armor, down to his finicky boots.

Instead I yanked weeds.

Wait till I’m rich. Yank.

I’ll be swimming in basketballs. Yank.

Written and illustrated by Reuben Casey—Ha! Yank. Yank. Yank.

Miz Lady yelled over the garden fence, “Money keeps showing up under my door, Mister Cool. Must be the tooth fairy.”

School wasn’t much better.

Me passing Reuben with my frozen-cool face.

Him passing me with his Popsicle face.

Blood Green calling me Flower Boy, Sissy.

Blood drawing chalk flowers on the sidewalk.

Blood shrieking, “Boo-kay!” like a crazy parrot.

Each weed became a perfect picture of Blood’s mean smirk. Yank. Yank. Yank.

“Don’t you want to play basketball?” Mama asked.

“Gotta work.”

“Don’t you want to visit Reuben?”

“Gotta weed.”

“Want to go out for pizza?”

“Can’t till it’s dark.”

Mama was wearing her worry look a lot these days. “You certainly enjoy that garden.”

Yeah, right.

That garden was growing nothing but trouble and weeds.

Even Abraham and Juana wouldn’t help. Abraham said he had allergies and that the garden would be the death of him. (His mother’s words.) Juana said that I’d treated Reuben like dirt and she wouldn’t work for a cheating friend. (Her words.)

Yank. Yank. Yank.

Mailbags even started paying me to weed his garden. So did old Mrs. Groomsby.

That garden was growing trouble, weeds,
and
dollar bills.

And finally flowers.

One day a few buds. The next day—
BOOM! Zinnias zinging. Nasturtiums knocking. Marigolds gleaming like gold.

I just sat down hard. This garden would be some kind of present for Mama’s birthday.

Then one day my weeds stopped growing.

I couldn’t understand it. Mailbags’s weeds still grew. Mrs. Groomsby’s weeds still grew. But my flowers flourished without the hint of a weed.

“Why?” I asked Mailbags.

Mailbags fingered a marigold.

“Sometimes I see things,” he said, “when I start my rounds in the morning. Mind you, morning mist moves like a ghost, so I can’t be sure. But I
thought
I saw something in your garden.”

“What?”

Mailbags looked down. “Maybe a boy.” He scratched his ear thoughtfully. “Maybe your friend.”

I snorted. “He’s no friend.”

“No?”

“No.”

“Sure is doing a friendly thing.”

“Now that I’m going to be rich, he just wants back in the business.”

“Is that so?”

“And he stole Captain Nemo from me.”

Mailbags squinted up at the sun. “That morning mist sure tricks the eyes.”

I watched Mailbags mosey back to his garden.

“He called the rosebush a puddle of thorns,” I hollered.

Mailbags turned. “Puddle of thorns.” He chuckled. “That’s a good description.”

“Wait till it sprouts those five-dollar roses.”

“Jackson,” said Mailbags, “that bush is going to be a puddle of thorns for a while. Roses take a long time to bloom—five-dollar or otherwise.”

I kicked the ground. “Four dollars and ninety-five cents for a puddle of thorns. What kind of investment is that?”

“A lousy one,” said Mailbags, whistling off to his cucumbers.

What a rip-off, I thought. Next year I planned
not
to have a garden. I’d make sure Mama was clear on that before my eleventh
birthday. T-shirt, sports stuff, money—no garden. Someone else could have those stinking roses.

But if I didn’t have roses, at least I had plenty of one-dollar zinnias, nasturtiums, and marigolds. Surely enough for one basketball.

Mama’s birthday was in two weeks.

Then no more flowers, no more garden, no more trouble.

Just me quick dribblin’, dunking, scoring. Shooting hoops all summer long.

“F
orty-eight, forty-nine,” I mouthed. The zinnias tossed in the breeze.

“What ya doing, Jackson?” Gaby materialized suddenly, lugging the thumb-sucking Ro.

“Nothing,” I said, losing count.

“You were doing
something
,” Gaby said. “I saw your lips move.”

“Does Juana know you’re here?”

“Sure,” said Gaby. “She says we can’t go to the store with her anymore ’cause Ro breaks stuff. She said you’d watch us.”

“Didn’t break nothin’,” Ro mumbled around his thumb.

“The juice bottle was slippery,” Gaby explained.
She pulled Ro’s thumb out of his mouth. “Or so he claims.”

Ro popped his thumb back in.

“I don’t have time to baby-sit,” I said.

“Were you
praying
?” Gaby persisted. “Jackson was praying,” she explained to Ro. Ro nodded solemnly.

“I was
counting
. At least until you interrupted.”

“Count away.” Gaby sniffed. “Who’s stopping you?”

I started again. Silently one-two-three…

“Forty-nine, sixty-four, three, eleven,” said Gaby.

“One trillion, ninety-two, three,” sang Ro.

I stopped.

Gaby looked innocently at me. “What’d I do? I was just counting. I can count. It’s a free country.”

I started again. Twenty-seven, twenty-eight.

“You’re counting the flowers,” said Gaby.

Thirty-four, thirty-five.

“Juana says you’re going to sell your mama’s flowers. She says you cheated your best friend.”

Forty-two, forty-three, forty-four.

“Me, I tell her it’s a hard world. A man’s got to make money.”

Fifty—“What?” I said.

“Also a girl and her small brother,” Gaby continued.

“So now you think we’re partners?”

“Could be,” said Gaby. “If I like the deal.” She squatted. “Kids like Ro can
help
a business, especially if they’re small and cute.” She gazed significantly at Ro.

He stared back, working his thumb.

I said, “Looks like he has a plug in his face.”

Gaby tugged Ro’s fist. He held tight. They struggled.

“Anyway,” said Gaby, giving up, “the thumb-sucking’s part of his charm.” She surveyed Ro, spat on the hem of her T-shirt, wiped his cheek. “Just try us. Cut a few of those red things.” She waved at the zinnias. “Set up shop. Business will boom.”

“How much?” I asked suspiciously.

“This time free,” said Gaby. “Next time we talk money.”

I cut ten zinnias. Mailbags said thinning was good for a garden. So I wasn’t exactly selling Mama’s birthday present before she saw it—I was
thinning
.

Gaby dragged Ro to the street corner. She stuck three dandelions in his hair, swiped again at his face.

“Look cute,” she commanded.

“I gotta pee.”

“Hold it.”

To me she said, “Better work fast.”

“What do I do?”

Gaby rolled her eyes. “I thought you were the big businessman. You gotta yell, ‘Get your fresh flowers here.”’

“We need a sign.”

Gaby glanced at the squirming Ro. “There’s no time.”

Suddenly she screamed, “Fresh flowers, right here!”

An old lady almost dropped her groceries. “Goodness, dear, you scared me.”

“Want to buy some flowers?”

“I don’t think so, dear. Maybe tomorrow.”

“They’ll be
dead
tomorrow,” said Gaby.

The old lady just looked surprised and shuffled off.

“Fresh flowers!” Gaby screamed at the passing cars.

No one stopped.

“Cheap jerks.”

Ro was really squirming now. “Gaby,” I said, “maybe we should take Ro—”

“Quiet,” she hissed. Her lips curved into a sweet smile.

Coming toward us was a woman with hair as big and shiny as Captain Nemo’s helmet. Amazing! Her lips were the color of zinnias and her eyes blue-painted up to the brow. A sweaty man lumbered beside her.

“Oh, Frank,” crooned the woman. “Just look at these adorable children.” Her perfume advanced on us like the prow of a battleship. I stepped back.

“These flowers would look great with your dress,” Gaby said hopefully.

“Red flowers with this orange?” The lady tittered.

Her blueberry eyes swept over the zinnias and settled on Ro. By this time the little guy
was wriggling like an earthworm. I felt sorry for him.

“What a precious child!” cried the lady.

A look of pain crossed Ro’s face. “Gaby,” he whispered.

“He’s my brother,” said Gaby. “Very well behaved.”

The lady patted the dandelions on Ro’s head.

“The flowers are on sale today,” Gaby prompted. “One dollar a flower. Ten dollars for the bunch.”

“That’s not a sale,” I whispered.

Gaby kicked me.

“Such a little businesswoman,” said the lady.

She smiled at Gaby.

Gaby smiled back.

They looked like they were trying to out-smile each other.

The lady showed some more teeth. “Frank,” she said.

Frank mopped his forehead. He pulled a ten-spot out of his wallet and gave it to me. He didn’t even look at it.

Gaby’s smile relaxed.

The lady smiled brilliantly all around and sailed off in the midst of her perfume.

“Phew.” Gaby held her nose. “You mean people
pay
for that smell?”

“There you are.” Juana pounced on Gaby. “What are you doing?”

“Selling flowers,” said Gaby. “Jackson, give me my share.”

I fished in my pocket and came up with sixty-two cents.

“Seven dollars,” said Gaby.

“What?” I yelped.

Gaby eyed me coolly. “My payment.”

“Juana,” wailed Ro.

“You used these children.” Juana turned on me, her dark eyes flashing.

“Gaby said she’d help for free—”

“Cheat,” said Juana. “Selling your mama’s present.”

“Pay up.” Gaby stuck out her palm.

“Big money man,” Juana spat.

She grabbed Gaby’s hand. Her sandals slapped furiously on the sidewalk.

“Seven bucks, Bouquet Jones,” Gaby
screamed, pulling at Juana. “You owe me seven bucks.”

I wandered back to the garden.

Counted the flowers. Sixty-nine.

Counted again. Sixty-seven.

Counted again. Seventy.

Funny how a ten-spot can weigh kind of heavy.